


two steps left

by Sham



Category: Inception (2010)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:52:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sham/pseuds/Sham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s how Ariadne sees them, backlit at the bar and almost impossibly sophisticated for a bar with sticky floors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	two steps left

It’s not a busy place, not loud or crowded or full of men in tight clothes and women with plunging necklines. It’s not quite classy, either, though it makes the effort, with dim but welcome lighting and quiet music pumping through the stereo. There’s little business to be found in a place like this on a Tuesday evening, with a small crowd of businessmen sitting side by side in a booth, and then them, seated on high stools at the bar, one large hand cradling a sweating tumbler of whiskey and another wrapped around the long neck of a beer.

Them, Eames and his friend, their backs to the door and their bodies curved into each other like closed parentheses. He rests his spare hand on his companion’s back, not quite so low as to be indecent but nearly uncomfortably familiar. He rucks up silk as he slides his thumb up and down slowly and methodically, and leans even closer to whisper into the delicate arch of her pale ear.

That’s how Ariadne sees them, backlit at the bar and almost impossibly sophisticated for a bar with sticky floors. Eames is dressed well, as put together as she’s ever seen him in a well-cut, steel-grey suit, the almost obscene curve of his lips protruding from his profile. He looks at his friend as if she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and if she isn’t quite that, she comes close, in a simple black dress. She has her feet tucked precariously into the rungs of her stool and Ariadne can just make out the sleek lines of vicious stilettos, dark as sin to match the color of her hair. Diamonds shine in her ears as she throws her head back to laugh, and the line of her neck is impeccable.

She sighs a little enviously and drags her fingers through her own tangled hair, grimacing at the wetness, and looks over her shoulder and out the window at the rain knocking at the window. She’s not usually one to go to a bar by herself, but she’d wanted to get out of the rain and this place seemed as good as any. She makes her way to the bar as silently as she can, but Eames catches her out of the corner of his eye and turns to face her, sweeping his hand down his friend’s back as he does. He drops his hand away and smiles sharply at Ariadne, closed-mouth, as his companion turns the other way to face the bar and wrap her long, blunt fingers around her beer, taking a long drag as Ariadne smiles back at Eames.

“Ariadne,” he says, voice low and smooth. “What a surprise. To what do I owe the honor?”

Ariadne laughs sheepishly. She gestures at the wet drops framing her coat and dripping down her neck from her hair. “The rain,” she says, and twists her mouth wryly. “I figured I could get a drink, hide out for a bit.”

“An impeccable plan.” Eames doesn’t sound annoyed, really, but there’s an edge to his voice. He’s polite, nonetheless, and gestures without looking to the bartender, summoning him without difficulty. “What’s your poison?”

“Such a cliché,” Ariadne shakes her head, smiling, and dips her head a little as she orders just a virgin daiquiri.

Eames slides money across the bar before she can reach for her handbag and waves off her thanks. “It’s nothing. Not even a little liquor to shake off the rain?”

“I’ve still got more work to do tonight.” Ariadne slides her eyes across to his friend, looking at the strong lines of her bare shoulders and the strength at the turns of her wrist. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Eames laughs, and his friend says, voice surprisingly low and throaty, “With observational skills like that, Ariadne, you won’t make it far in our line of business,”

Ariadne frowns. “What? How do y--?” She breaks off, frowns a little deeper and leans in. She looks closer as she turns around and it’s the curve of her lips in a familiar smirk that makes her gasp.

“Hello, Ariadne,” Arthur says, and smiles at her with lips painted a deep red. He crosses his legs and turns to face her fully.

Eames laughs and puts his hand back on Arthur’s leg, resting on smooth white skin. He strokes there absently. “Don’t worry, Ariadne, he fools a lot of people. Beautiful, isn’t he?”

“Eames,” Arthur says warningly, and flicks Ariadne an exasperated look, inviting her to share in his mild ire. His eyes are limned in black and his eyelashes are thicker than normal.

“You’re wearing a dress!” Ariadne blurts, and immediately wishes she hadn’t, hating to state the obvious. She frowns at herself but forces a smile, raises her eyebrows at them, where they’re both watching her carefully. “I feel like maybe I should’ve ordered a regular daiquiri instead.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, a distressingly familiar gesture in an unfamiliar face. “Take a seat, Ariadne,”

She does, feeling too casual in jeans next to Arthur’s dress and Eames’s suit. “So, is this a—a regular thing?”

“What, the drag?” Eames says, sounding much too amused until he gasps sharply, jerking away from Arthur. “Bloody hell, darling, that hurt!”

“It was meant to,” Arthur’s voice is as dry as the desert and he takes a long pull from his bottle again. “Stop being an ass.” He looks at Ariadne, raising his eyebrow. “It isn’t regular, no.”

“And you’re. I mean. Are you trans? Or…?”

Eames laughs out loud, brash and raucous as Ariadne flushes. “Let me handle this one, Arthur.” He drapes his arms around Arthur’s waist and hooks his chin over his thin shoulder. The bartender pushes Ariadne’s drink across to her and leaves without looking at them too closely. Eames's eyes are solemn and Ariadne meets his gaze unflinchingly. “Arthur’s all man, Ariadne. He just likes wearing dresses. And _I_ like him in dresses, too. Although I especially like taking them off,”

"Jesus Christ." Arthur sighs explosively, but didn’t shrug him off. “What he’s trying to say is that just because I like wearing dresses sometimes doesn’t mean I’m a woman, or that I want to be a woman, or anything. It means I’m comfortable in my gender and my sexuality and that I like the feel of a dress and high heels.”

“He’s a hedonist, our Arthur. But he looks damn good in a dress, doesn’t he, Ariadne?” There’s steel in his voice.

“Of course. He’s got the figure for it,” Ariadne smirks and raises her glass.

“Assholes.” Arthur scowls at them both and knocks back his drink, taking long gulps that throw his adam’s apple into sharp relief. Ariadne wonders how she didn’t see it before.


End file.
